


The More Things Change

by pitcalco



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Family Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-24 22:33:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14963453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pitcalco/pseuds/pitcalco
Summary: Set in Berlin 1999 as the band Rammstein comes into its own, Paul Landers and his father Anton Hiersche struggle to come to terms with Paul's music career. Conflicts arise as Anton tries to get Paul to follow a more traditional career path. Christoph Schneider is witness to the stubbornness of father and son alike.This is a serious story, folks. A bit of humour, but no steamy illicit sex here. Not saying you can't enjoy that stuff too, but I don't want anyone getting the wrong impression. Enjoy this story for what it's worth.





	The More Things Change

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
THE MORE THINGS CHANGE  
A Work of Rammstein Fan Fiction  
By Paul Lambert  
  
  
Copyright Paul Lambert 2018  
  
  
The tea kettle whistled. The water was hot, and it was time for Heike Hoffmann to start her morning as she always did, namely, with a large cup of Earl Grey tea at breakfast. At her age, the old maid found contentment in the small joys in life: the sound of rain at night, the laughter of children in the playground during the afternoon, and yes, the taste of a strong cup of tea to start each morning. As far as she was concerned, she had everything a woman her age could ever need in life, or so she told herself.  
  
        That is not to say that she especially wanted for anything. Indeed, she managed to avoid one affliction that tends to strike many of the elderly these days: loneliness. She had good friends of all ages and she even enjoyed a certain degree of popularity, especially down at the Saturday street market on Kollwitzstrasse, where she would often encounter the same loyal circle of amicable acquaintances weekend after weekend. Today being a Saturday, this weekend would be no different and she looked forward.  
  
        While Heike Hoffmann was content enough with the acquaintances she had and the society she kept, there was only major thing missing in her life: she never married. Certainly, as a young woman, she did not lack for suitors as she had been an exceptionally pretty girl who made heads turn wherever she walked about East Berlin. Sadly, her beauty and the attention she received from young men only made her vain. Aware of her beauty, she never would deign to settle for any of her young suitors. She kept waiting and waiting for somebody she thought would be worthy of her. As time went on, her suitors called upon her less and less frequently until they stopped calling on her altogether. Even the most patient of hearts cannot wait forever.  
  
        Heike was nevertheless visited by one unwelcome guest that she always refused to acknowledge: time. Time did to the old maid what it does to the beauty of all women, but Heike refused to see it. As she looked into her mirror on this bright Saturday morning, she could only see the face that had caught the attention of so many hopeful young men so many years before. She could not bring herself to see the thin grey bird’s nest on the top of her head, where once was found luscious locks of flowing auburn hair. She could only see the bright blue eyes in her face, but not the paleness that had come over them, and she marvelled in pride at what she still saw as her plump, soft lips, while blanking out of her sight and her mind the deep crevices in the corners of her mouth.  
  
        In her own mind, Heike Hoffmann was still a stunningly beautiful young woman and she even imagined that young men took notice of her and were pursuing her affection. She had just turned eighty-one years old.  
  
        “Oh dear!” she said to herself. Heike looked away from the mirror and stepped out of her vain trance just long enough to notice that her tea kettle was still whistling and boiling. She was thankful to find that the water had not boiled away; rather, it was just perfect and she poured up a nice hot cup of Earl Grey into an old porcelain teacup. The teacup and saucer were part of a set she got as a coming-out present she received as a young lady shortly before the war. Amazingly, the entire set remained as immaculately intact, beautiful and flawless as when the young debutante first received it.  
  
        She took her teacup and saucer out into the living room. No sooner had she sat down in her antique plush chair when she heard the sound of something falling down at the bottom of the stairwell in her building. It sounded like a heavy box being pushed down the stairs. Immediately upon hearing the initial din of some object or another suffering under the undue influence of gravity, she heard the shuffle of footsteps rush back down the stairs along with some muffled curses and despondent sighs. Heike carefully set her cup and saucer down on the small table located to the side of her plush chair and got up to head toward the door to see what all the commotion was. She felt no need to hurry as it was unlikely that anyone was hurt, but surely somebody could use a hand.  
  
        She opened the door and looked down the stairwell. At the bottom, she saw a fairly slim man in a jacket and tie wearing thick-framed eyeglasses. The man was struggling to pick up a number of parcels that he had apparently dropped while climbing up the stairs. Heike walked down the single flight of stairs to the entrance foyer where the poor man was trying to stack the all-too-many oddly shaped parcels back into his arms. Heike reached the foyer just as the struggling man managed to take hold of the last package and by means of some rather contorted twists of his arms and body, and after several times nearly losing his balance, he got the last parcel on top of his bundle and he once more began carrying the stack of strange parcels, his arms and hands at the bottom of the pile.  
  
        “Do you need help, sir?” Heike asked the man.  
  
        “Oh no. Thank you anyway. I think I finally got it,” he said. As well as being too proud to admit that he needed help, the man in the jacket was far too well-mannered to allow a woman to do a man’s job, especially a woman who was clearly elderly.  
  
        The stack of parcels in the poor man’s arms was so high that he could hardly see in front of him. Not knowing where the stairway began, he slowly slid each foot a few inches at a time, first the left, then the right, until his toes touched the base of the bottom step at the first flight of stairs. Carefully, he raised his left foot onto the platform of the first step; then he placed his right foot onto the second step. “So far, so good,” he thought. Slowly, but surely, the man steadily made his way up several steps, going a bit faster at each step as his confidence increased, while Heike stood at the bottom of the stairs and looked on in worry. What the man did not see was that one of the oddly shaped parcels located about half-way up in the pile was protruding outward to the right and it got stuck in the banister. As the man continued to rise up the stairs, this parcel created a lever action that soon sent the other parcels on top flying off the pile. Startled, the man lost his balance and his entire load came tumbling down the stairs for a second time. The weary-looking man was lucky not to have fallen down the stairs himself.  
  
        “This certainly looks like a two-man job,” said Heike as she approached the dishevelled pile of now slightly battered parcels. “Please let me help you.” The old woman helped to pick up the parcels. As she loaded the gentleman’s arms once more, but this time with only half of the parcels, she asked “So where are you going with these?”  
  
        “Top floor,” said the man. “Typical, isn’t it?”  
  
        “Oh, you are on your way to see Paul Landers,” she concluded.  
  
        “That’s right. He’s my son. All these clumsy packages are for him,” the man explained.  
  
        “I see,” she said. “Then you must be Herr Hiersche. I’ve heard about you.”  
  
        “That’s Professor Hiersche,” he was quick to correct the old maid. “Professor Anton Hiersche.”  
  
        “Indeed, Professor. I am happy to meet you. My name is Heike Hoffmann.”  
  
        Heike picked up the remaining parcels, bundled them in her arms and then headed back toward the staircase right behind professor Hiersche. Their little chat was suddenly interrupted by the creaky sound of a door opening. It was the door to the ground-floor apartment. The hinge was badly in need of oil. The squeaky sound echoed throughout the entire stairwell as the door opened just wide enough for the balding head of a sixty-year-old man to peer outside with a curious look on his face.  
  
        “What’s going on? Everything alright?” asked the plain-looking old man.  
  
        “Yes, Herr Sauer,” replied Heike. “Everything is under control. Don’t worry about it.”  
  
        How considerate it was, both Heike and Anton thought, that Herr Sauer only decided to take an interest in the poor professor’s parcel predicament after the old lady from the flat one floor above came to offer her help and the problem was already solved.  
  
        “What’s in those parcels?” asked Herr Sauer with a tone conveying as much suspicion as curiosity.  
  
        “I said everything is under control, Herr Sauer, thank you,” retorted Heike with a distinct tone of irritation in her voice.  
  
        “I just want to know what is inside those parcels,” insisted Herr Sauer in a tone that only he could generate. It was hard to describe, but whenever he demanded anything of anybody, he presented a unique ability to combine the sound of begging, threatening and whining all at the same time.  
  
        “Please go back inside your flat, Herr Sauer,” Heike commanded in a calm yet firm tone. The next two sounds where those of the deafening squeak of the door hinge and the sound of the door closing.  
  
        “That was one pushy fellow!” opined the professor.  
  
        “That was Herr Sauer. He’s lived here for ages. Don’t take it personally; he does that to everybody,” said Heike in somewhat of an attempt to console poor Anton for having been so rudely greeted by her nosy neighbour. “Personally,” she added, “I think he is infatuated with me, but he is certainly not my type.”  
  
        Anton chuckled slightly at what he thought was a joke – only she was not joking; she was simply very much mistaken.  
  
        The two headed up the staircase at last, Anton walking just ahead of Heike. At the first landing was the entrance to Heike’s flat. The door was left open when Heike came out to see was all the noise was about in the first place. Anton turned his head backward toward the old lady and said, “If only Paul lived on the first floor like you do –” he began.  
  
        “Look straight ahead, Professor!” she admonished him, not fancying the idea of him dropping his parcels once more.  
  
        They started up the second set of stairs and on toward the next floor. With his gaze forward, Anton picked up his earlier train of thought. “If only Paul lived one floor up like you do, I wouldn’t have had this trouble.”  
  
        “Really?” The old lady was puzzled. “Didn’t you drop these parcels twice just coming up the first flight of stairs?”  
  
        “Yes, I’m afraid so.”  
  
        “Well then, it would have made no difference had Paul lived one floor up, now would it? And I thought you professors were supposed to be the smart ones.”  
  
        “Cheeky old broad,” Anton wanted to say to her, but he refrained.  
  
        Seven floors later, the two old people finally reached their destination: Paul Landers’s flat. Heike put the parcels she was holding down on the floor right by Paul’s entrance door. Anton put his down right next to hers.  
  
        “Well, if you will excuse me, Professor,” said Heike, “I have a cup of tea to finish before it goes cold. Then I am off to the market.”  
  
        “Thank you very much, Frau Hoffmann,” Anton replied. “I appreciate your help”  
  
        Heike headed back downstairs, went into her flat and closed the door.  
  
        Anton hesitated a moment before knocking on Paul’s door. He looked at his watch and saw that it was only 10:20 am. Given Paul’s typical rock-star nocturnal habits, the professor knew that he would necessarily be getting Paul out of bed. He expected he would have to wait some time for Paul to answer the door. He knocked carefully, slightly tapping the door ten times, then waiting ten seconds before tapping ten more times and repeating the process until Paul, he hoped, would answer the door. Far be it from the learned professor to bang loudly on the door, lest he disturb the others in the house, and God forbid give Herr Sauer a reason to stick his ratty face through his squeaky door and give the tired old professor the third degree on his way out of the building.  
  
        After about the fifth series of gentle taps sufficing for knocks, the door swung open. There Anton saw his son, Paul Landers. Paul was in a pair of light grey fleece track-suit trousers and a black T-shirt. He was barefoot. Rubbing his eyes and squinting, it was clear that Paul was slightly blinded by the daylight coming into his front door by way of the large window in the stairwell. “Hello, Son,” said Anton. “Here are the parcels I told you I’d be bringing. There are quite a lot of them this time. It wasn’t easy getting them here.”  
  
        Paul yawned. “Oh Dad,” he said. “What time is it?”  
  
        “It’s almost half-past-ten in the morning.”  
  
        Paul shook his head and in a sleepy voice said “I am glad you brought me my parcels, but did you really have to do this now in the middle of the night?”  
  
        “Does that mean I can come in, Paul?” Anton grumbled, slightly annoyed at his son’s apparent lack of appreciation – both of the time of day and of his efforts. Of course, Paul could not know of the trouble his father went through just a few minutes earlier in getting up the stairs.  
  
        Paul stepped to the side and let Anton come into the flat and straight into the living room, bundle in arms. As the professor placed the bundle of parcels down onto Paul’s living room table, he remarked “There are a few more right outside the door.” Paul stepped outside to retrieve them. He picked up the remaining parcels himself, stepped back into the flat and with his elbow and then his back, he closed the door behind him.  
  
        “Well, since we are both up now,” said Paul, “I had might as well put on some coffee.”  
  
        “Black, two sugars,” said Anton.  
  
        Paul set the parcels he was holding onto the living room table as well and then walked over to the small kitchenette located in the corner of the room, well within earshot of Anton standing in the middle of the living room. Anton looked once more at the brown paper packages in all shapes and sizes piled on the living room table.  
  
        “Paul,” he began, “what is all this stuff?” His tone was rather accusatory and dismissive at the same time.  
  
        Paul said from the kitchenette as the pot began boiling, “You wouldn’t really be interested, Dad.”  
  
        “Well then, it must be what I think it is,” concluded Anton. “More of the same junk on which you waste so much time and money.”  
  
        “See?” said Paul. “I told you that you wouldn’t be interested.”  
  
        “Look Paul,” Anton began, “this rock’n’roll stuff you’re so much into – you know – your punk stuff – your rebellious music – well, sure, it was all cute back when you were sixteen years old, but now that you are thirty-four, don’t you think you ought to grow up and think about your career and get a real job?”  
   
        “C’mon Dad, please! Enough now.” Paul poured up the two cups of coffee, put sugar into his father’s cup and then turned around. With one cup of coffee in each hand, Paul walked back toward the middle of the living room and handed his father a cup. Both of them sat down on the sofa chairs placed around the living room table.  
  
        “Did you remember the sugar?” asked Anton.  
  
        “Yes, I remembered,” whined Paul. “I remember everything you tell me – which is why you don’t need to remind me yet again of all the time and money I spend on my music.”  
  
        “I just want you to keep your options open, Paul,” said Anton, suddenly playing the role of the concerned father. “Look, I still have some contacts. I meet with Walther each week – you know – Walther from the old office. I could ask if he could get you an office job. I know things don’t quite run the same way now as they did before, but we should still be able to pull a few strings and work something out for you.”  
  
        “Oh Dad!” began Paul, annoyed, “If we never had this conversation before, I would simply tell you that it is too early in the morning for me to get into this discussion; however, given that I have been subjected to this old speech a thousand times, all I can tell you is that I don’t care to discuss it. By the way, saying ‘I don’t care to discuss it’ is out of respect for the fact that you’re my father. Had you been any other man, I would have said exactly what I really wanted to say – and good thing there are no women or children around to hear it!”  
  
        Anton put his cup down onto the table in front of him, leaned forward and looked straight at Paul as he said, “Listen here, you ingrate. If I were any other man, I wouldn’t give a toss about you or how you make out in life.” Anton, suddenly aware of his rising annoyance and anger, then took a deep breath, leaned back in his chair and tried once more to speak calmly. “There is no need for us to become less than civil. Please Paul,” Anton implored him, “Look, I don’t know. Maybe you will make something of this stuff, this Rammstein, or whatever you call it. If so, great. If not, you need a plan B. Let me talk to Walther, son. It can’t hurt just to ask.”  
  
        “Who are you talking about?” asked Paul. “Who is this Walther fellow? Surely, you don’t mean that old goat, Walther Schramm, do you?”  
  
        “Of course, I mean Walther Schramm. You remember him. He was the head of the Office of…”  
  
        “What?” Paul interrupted with a high-pitched squeak of incredulity. He rolled his tired eyes as he simultaneously leaned his head back against his sofa chair and shook it in disbelief. “Office of something-that-doesn’t-exist-anymore, right? I see all you old socialist die-hards stick together. Walther Schramm doesn’t have the authority to give me a job as a men’s room attendant these days, much less anything else. I’d be surprised if he even had authority over an alarm clock of his own.”  
  
        “Fine then, Paul!” Even Anton was getting tired of this discussion, at last, seeing that he was not getting anywhere. As out of touch as Anton was in so many ways, he sincerely believed he had some information, knowledge, connections and authority which he could use to help Paul. “Alright, I won’t press the issue, but,” Anton concluded, “you are thirty-four years old. It is time for you to act your age.”  
  
        Paul replied, “Dad, it is the year 1999. It’s time for you just to get on with living.”  
  
        The next sound was that of a key turning in the lock of the front door to Paul’s flat. Anton and Paul swung their heads around to see Christoph Schneider let himself inside.  
  
        “Oh, hi there, Professor!” said Schneider, somewhat surprised to see Anton at the apartment, but equally surprised to see Paul out of bed so early in the day.  
  
        Anton, rudely, refused to return Schneider’s greeting, but rather simply frowned at him for a few seconds before turning back towards Paul to say, “I suppose I shouldn’t be all too surprised to find that he has a key to your flat.”  
  
        “That’s right, Dad,” said Paul. “People that I like are welcome here anytime.”  
  
        “Touché,” snorted Anton.  
  
        For a few seconds, there was an awkward silence. Schneider said to them both “I see I’ve come at a bad time. I will leave you alone. I’ll just take a nap for a while. I had a late night.” With that, Schneider walked straight from the front door that he just closed behind him and into the bedroom, disappearing behind the bedroom door as it closed.  
  
        “And of course, he is going right to your one-and-only bedroom and bed where you were just sleeping,” Anton felt compelled to comment. “God only knows what you two would get up to if I had not come by this morning.”  
  
        Paul sighed and said, “That would be yet another tiresome discussion we have had many times which I don’t care to repeat now. Never mind what Schneider and I get up to when nobody else is around.”  
  
        “Fine,” said Anton snidely, “I’m quite happy to return to the topic of all the time and money you waste on your fruitless endeavours.”  
  
        “Sure, Dad,” said Paul. “Actually, I changed my mind. I would like to discuss that. I’ve wasted some ten minutes that I will never get back that I could have spent sleeping instead of listening to your stupid complaints about my life and your empty promises about how your old socialist friends could help me. As for money, I just wasted about fifteen Pfennig worth of coffee on you that I could have given to someone else whose company I might actually enjoy. So, you’re right after all, Dad,” concluded Paul. “So far, this morning has been a total waste of life.”  
  
        “You ungrateful little punk!” said Anton. “If you only knew what trouble I went through to get your parcels upstairs!”  
  
        Paul answered, while still leaned back in his chair, “I’m sorry, Dad. Where are my manners? Of course, thank you for bringing over my parcels. Now you can get lost.”  
          
  
  
  
  
The afternoon sun struggled to creep around the bedroom curtain. Lying flat on his back in bed, Paul opened his eyes to see a few yellow streaks of sunlight whisked against the walls and ceiling. He turned his head in order to take a look at the clock resting on his bedside table. He could not see it. He reached over in the dark to paw around to see if he could find the clock, but as his hand reached out onto the dark bedside table, he felt something soft. Puzzled, he held it lightly in his hand and determined that it was a small pouch of lavender.  
  
        “Ah, of course!” Paul thought. Paul liked having lavender in his bedroom since he found that it helped him to sleep. He carefully slid the pouch to one side to reveal the digital alarm clock that was hiding behind. The time was 2 p.m.  
  
        Paul sat up in bed and then turned to put on his slippers. After having been woken up by his father’s earlier visit, he returned to bed, resolved to wake up now at this usual time. Waking up any earlier was unthinkable to Paul. 10:30 a.m. indeed! Did such hours even really exist?  
  
        Paul opened his bedroom door and steeped out of his room to find Schneider at the kitchenette preparing a pot of coffee. He had been up for a little while already, needing only a short nap once he got to Paul’s flat.  
  
        “Just what I need,” Paul said with relief once he saw that Schneider had put the percolator onto the stove. “And just when I need it.”  
  
        “I know you well,” said Schneider. “Two o’clock – it’s time for your morning coffee.”  
  
        “I’m just glad I was able to get back to sleep once my dad left,” Paul said with a sigh of relief.  
  
        “After you threw him out, you mean,” corrected Schneider. “Yeah, I heard all the harsh words you had for each other. Not very nice at all. Oh by the way,” Schneider asked, changing the topic somewhat, “How come your dad never acknowledges me or says hello anymore? I’ve never had a problem with him before, but lately he just gives me the cold shoulder whenever I try to say hello Did I do anything to upset him?”  
  
        “No, I am sure it is not anything you did in particular,” Paul assured him. “I am certain it is all about the nature of our friendship.”  
  
        Schneider paused for a moment and then asked, “What’s that supposed to mean?”  
  
        “That’s how he puts it,” explained Paul. “He is very concerned about ‘the nature of your friendship with Christoph Schneider’ as he so euphemistically puts it.”  
  
        Of course, the friendship between Paul and Schneider was of a nature that in East Germany only a dozen years earlier could easily have found them both at the end of a rope.  
  
        Paul sat back down in the sofa chair by the living room table, the one in which he had been sitting earlier that morning while he listened to his father bore him. He leaned back against the soft cushion and eagerly awaited the cup of coffee that Schneider was preparing for him. He hoped that Schneider would drop the subject of Professor Anton Hiersche, but it was to no avail.  
  
        “Paul,” began Schneider. “I understand that not everyone approved of the nature of our friendship, if you will, and I don’t expect your father to be any different, but approve or not, your father has never had a falling out with me, personally, not have I ever caused him offence. Surely, he can just say hello now and then.”  
  
        “Oh Schneider,” sighed Paul. “I have long since despaired of ever winning my father’s approval about anything. If I, his own son, will never be good enough in his eyes, neither will anyone else I know. Besides, in his own twisted way, he thinks he is being helpful.”  
  
        Schneider then dropped the subject. He could see how much Paul had given up any hope of coming to terms with his father. “I hope,” Paul concluded, “that the day will come when we can just agree to disagree.”  
  
        Schneider lifted the percolator off the top of the stove. “I think the coffee is ready.”  
  
        “Oh, wonderful!” said Paul. “That is the first bit of good news I’ve heard all day.”  
  
        “Speaking of good news,” said Schneider as he handed Paul his cup of coffee, “Have you heard anything from Sebastian yet?”  
  
        “No, I haven’t actually,” said Paul with a slight hint of concern in his voice. “Now that you mention it, I do find it strange not to have heard from Sebastian. How long has it been now? Three months since he left for Paris? I should have received a letter from him by now.”  
  
        “I wouldn’t worry quite yet,” Schneider assured Paul. “We both know how he always dreamed of going to Paris. Sebastian is probably having the time of his life, not to mention still absorbing all his new impressions. I doubt he can find the time to write you. Besides, you know what they say: No news is good news.”  
  
        “I suppose so,” answered Paul, not totally convinced. “Still, it is just not like him not to write. After three-month’s time, I would have expected a dozen letters or more by now.”  
  
        That was no exaggeration. Sebastian was a very prolific letter-writer. He devoted one entire evening each week to correspondence. He kept in touch with all his friends and relatives regularly, even if he could only send a postcard. He remembers all of his closest friend’s birthdays and he sent cards well in advance. Paul recalled on occasion many Decembers ago, on his birthday that Paul had to travel by train to Leipzig and would not be home in time to receive the birthday card that Sebastian had sent him. Upon realising this, Sebastian immediately ran to the train station to get the schedule for the Berlin-Leipzig train. Calling the station by telephone was not possible, as few people in those days had telephones at all; Sebastian’s family was no different. Then, by carefully looking at the schedule and counting the number of stops on the train route, Sebastian was able to estimate just where the train was located. Upon ascertaining that the train at that moment was about half-way to Leipzig and had about twenty minutes before it reached the next station, Sebastian then ran to the telegraph office and hurriedly forwarded a telegram to the station operator at the next stop on the line Paul was travelling. Twenty minutes later, the conductor aboard Paul’s training handed the young man a telegram.  
  
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY PAUL<STOP>YOUR FRIEND SEBASTIAN<STOP>,” was all that it read.  
  
        Growing up, Sebastian has been a bit of an unusual kid, but he had a heart of gold. He lived a few blocks away from Paul, and frankly, Paul liked Sebastian, but he could not really recall playing with him much, and in fact, Paul could not even remember exactly how he met Sebastian. They did not go to the same school at any time, and neither were Paul’s parents acquainted with Sebastian’s parents. Still, the two managed to stay in touch, even during those periods when Paul lived abroad, primarily in Russia.  
  
        Sebastian was quite a bit younger than Paul, but as time went by and the two got older, they became better acquainted and got to know each other; however, the two young men were very different from one another in terms of personality. Paul had always had an obsession with music. Sebastian, on the other hand, had a single-minded interest of his own: abroad. He was fascinated with the prospect of travel. In particular, he had a fascination with Paris, with which he was familiar only through the encyclopaedias and textbooks found at his school library. If he could never go anywhere else, he was determined to make it to Paris. Of course, given the profound difficulty back then in getting permission to leave East Germany at all, that prospect seemed distant and the chances of such a voyage ever happening were slim to none. Still, if there would ever be a way to make his dream come true, Sebastian would find out how to do it, so he resolved.  
  
        Firstly, he set out to learn French. This was not impossible in East Germany, but it could at times be problematic. The language was not taught to school children in those days. The foreign language of “choice” was Russian – that is to say that the East Germany state chose for everyone that Russian, the official language of the leading socialist country in Europe, was important for everyone to learn, certainly not French. Even instruction in English at higher levels of education in East Germany was perfunctory at best. Even the most studious of pupils taking on English would end up not being able to read much more than a children’s book, and then only with much help of a dictionary. However, what was worse was that someone who eagerly spent his free time learning a language like French, or for that matter any other official language of a nominally capitalist country, could generate a great deal of suspicion.  
  
        Sebastian went about learning French in a very ingenious, but tedious and painstaking manner. While the Berlin Wall prevented people from crossing the border with literally deadly effectiveness, there was nothing to keep radio waves from crossing over borders and barbed wire. Sebastian bought a cheap Robotron-brand transistor radio, Made in the German Democratic Republic. During the daytime, he could not pick up much more than German radio emanating from both the East and West; however, after the sun went down, he was able to receive stations located much further afield, including those broadcasting in French.  
  
        At first, Sebastian simply tuned in onto the French-language talk programmes in order to get a feel for the sound of the language. Of course, it was not long before he wanted to begin understanding what he heard. The obvious problem was that by merely listening to the radio, he had no visual clues or contexts from which he could learn what any of these words meant.  
  
        Then one day it occurred to him. Late one Christmas Eve, Sebastian listened carefully as he tuned back and forth through the stations on the long wave, medium wave and the very limited short wave band that the Robotron transistor radio featured. Suddenly, he found midnight mass being broadcast over the radio in French. Having been very familiar with the liturgy in German, this discovery gave Sebastian an idea. Night after night, whenever propagation conditions so allowed, Sebastian would tune to the French-language religious broadcasts, especially Sunday mass. At first, he gained nothing. Weeks would go by in which he could not gain the meanings of any of the French words he heard crackling in the radio loudspeaker; however, in time, slowly but surely, Sebastian was able to recognise the parallels and get the gist of the liturgy and compare it to the liturgy in his own language. Like Champollion deciphering the Rosetta Stone of Egypt, Sebastian was able to piece together more and more of what he heard, filling in more blanks and learning more words each week. In time, he understood everything being said in the mass, even the sermons. He then decided to broaden his vocabulary and started tuning in to other kinds of programmes, such as sporting events, popular music and then eventually news and documentaries. Using the same painstaking approach, and with the help of a French dictionary he managed to find at the bookstore, Sebastian became fairly fluent in French.  
  
        When the Wall finally fell in 1989, it opened up a whole new opportunity for Sebastian to improve his language skills. Of course, it was now possible for him to travel to France or anywhere he wanted. Surprisingly enough, and for reasons Paul never knew, Sebastian did not make any immediate plan to head for Paris, in spite of that always having been his dream. Instead, he began on a course of action that until that time would have seemed very suspicious to the East German secret police, namely, he made some pen pals in Paris. In fact, he had no fewer than eight Parisians of both sexes, all ages and of various stations in life with whom he corresponded on nearly a weekly basis – and in perfectly written French.  
  
        Sebastian kept all the letters he received from his pen pals in Paris and he showed them to Paul. Paul was visibly impressed to see that Sebastian was as conscientious in his letter-writing to his Parisian postal acquaintances as he was with his real-life friends in Berlin. Paul said to him, “Sebastian, if you ever make it to Paris, make sure you write to me just as often.”  
  
        “You can count on it, Paul!” Sebastian promised.  
  
        Some ten years later, Sebastian was finally able to fulfil his dream and move to Paris. Paul had even helped Sebastian to pack his car and trailer. “Don’t forget to write!” Paul reminded Sebastian of the promise he made to him years earlier.  
  
        It had been three months since Paul had said that to Sebastian. He had not heard a word.  
  
        “I hope you are right, Schneider. I hope he’s okay,” Paul said worriedly. “This really is not like him at all.”  
  
        “Alright then,” said Schneider. “Nothing yet from Sebastian. Now, let’s see what you did get.” Schneider sat down with his cup of coffee in the other sofa chair, eagerly waiting to see what was inside the parcels that Anton had left behind a few hours earlier.  
  
        “Yes indeed!” Paul’s face suddenly lit up in excitement as he leaned forward, set down his cup of coffee and rubbed his hands together in delight. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this stuff.”  
  
        Paul began opening the parcels one by one. Inside the first was a package of special alloy guitar strings. The second package had a few custom-made electric guitar humbucker pickups. In another package were some new reel-to-reel tapes. Paul them took hold of the largest parcel on the table and looked at it with a puzzled look on his face as he noticed the crushed corners and the dents in the side of the box itself. “What the hell did my dad do to this one?” asked Paul out loud. “Just look at the state of it. It almost looks like he dropped it down the stairs – twice!”  
  
        “Frankly,” commented Schneider, “I don’t know why you have your dad bring you these parcels anyway. You don’t like when he visits, and you know how much he hates climbing up those stairs. Why don’t you go over to his house instead in order to collect the things you have sent to him?”  
  
        “I can’t,” said Paul as he finished unwrapping the large, somewhat battered parcel to reveal a long-awaited mixer board that he got from America via mail order. “I can’t get to my dad’s house right now since my car is broken. It needs some serious work.”  
  
        “Really?” asked Schneider, surprised. “How long before it’s ready?”  
  
        “Don’t know,” said Paul. “I couldn’t tell you.”  
  
        “What do you mean?” said Schneider, leaning forward in his sofa chair. “How bad could it be? What did they tell you at the shop?”  
  
        “I haven’t taken it to the mechanic’s shop yet,” explained Paul.  
  
        “Why the hell not?” asked Schneider in disbelief. “You know, Paul, if you don’t have the money to get it fixed, you can always ask me.”  
  
        “Oh, that’s not the problem, Schneider,” Paul assured him. “The problem is that no mechanic is available.”  
  
        “That’s preposterous!” insisted Schneider. “There are plenty of car mechanics all over town. Most of them can even tow your car to their shops for you.”  
  
        Paul tilted back his head, drank the last sip of coffee left in his cup, placed the cup down onto his saucer on the table and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.  
  
        “There’s no mechanic available right now in this neighbourhood,” Paul specified.  
  
        Schneider took a deep breath as he leaned back into his sofa chair and rolled his eyes. “Well, that’s another story then, isn’t it?” said Schneider with a tired tone in his voice. He rolled his eyes and said, “So that is the problem leaving you without a means of transportation, you stubborn jerk.”  
  
        Paul simply shrugged his shoulders and let his eyes wander around the room. He was hoping that Schneider would change the subject. Of course, Schneider knew that this topic was a sore point for Paul, but now that Paul’s stubbornness reached such a point that he was without a working car, Schneider felt that it was getting ridiculous.  
  
        “Paul, listen,” said Schneider as he leaned forward. He continued to speak in the friendliest tone he could, “It has been a decade now since the Wall fell. We are about to embark upon a new century. Now, you told your dad that it was 1999 and he should get on with living. Well, maybe you need to heed your own advice and get on with living too. As for your car, how hard would it be for you simply to –”  
  
        “No! Don’t say it!” Paul shouted, hoping to drown out any further words from Schneider’s lips.  
  
        “C’mon, Paul. This is really getting silly. Just open up the yellow pages and call a repair shop in the –”  
  
        “NO!!!” Paul screamed. He put his hands up over his ears and closed his eyes while he continued to should, “No! I won’t have it! I know what you are going to say! You can just forget about it!”  
  
        With his hands over his ears and his eyes still closed, he began shaking his head back and forth, saying “La, la, la, la, la, la! Blah, blah, blah! Dee-do-dee-do-dee-doo!”  
  
        Schneider rolled his eyes and then sat silent for a few minutes. Paul finally stopped making his insipid noises, and once he saw that Schneider had stopped talking, he got up out of his sofa chair and walked over to his kitchenette to get an apple out of the fruit basket sitting on the countertop. He decided upon the big green sour apple, lifted the piece of fruit to his face and took a big bite, enjoying the tart taste of the sour, fleshy bite. While Paul was chewing on his hefty mouthful, Schneider finally found the opportunity to make his point.  
  
        “Paul, I think you should call a repair shop in the west end.”  
  
        “No!”, Paul instantly shouted in such a panic that he started to choke and cough on his apple. He had to spit this bite of apple out into the kitchenette dustbin, and then with a closed fist, he pounded several times on his chest in order to relieve the discomfort of the apple having gone down the wrong tube. Paul’s eyes were watering slightly, and he was still suffering from the shock of hearing Schneider’s outlandish suggestion.  
  
        “No, no! Damn it, Schneider!” Paul took a deep breath and said in a stern tone, “I told you before; I will not go to the west end! If I can’t get it done here in my own neighbourhood, then my car will just have to wait.”  
  
        Schneider suddenly stood up in frustration and walked toward the living room window, looking outside. “You are really being a baby,” said Schneider, but then he reconsidered his words. He turned around to face Paul and said, “Actually, Paul, you are as annoying as your stubborn old father.”  
  
        With that, Paul’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. In part, he was astonished that Schneider would ever say anything that he certainly would know Paul would find so hurtful, but Paul was also astonished when he realised deep down that Schneider was absolutely right.  
  
        Paul immediately went silent. He turned away from Schneider and faced the corner of the room where the kitchenette was located. He looked down at the floor and fought to hold back his tears.  
  
        Schneider, remorseful, walked up to Paul and embraced him around his shoulders from behind. “Oh Paul, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t really mean it –”  
  
        Paul cut him off, “Yeah,” he said sombrely, still looking downward. “Yeah, you did – and you might be right.”  
        Still holding Paul in his arms, Schneider gave Paul another quick and affectionate squeeze and said, “Look, I didn’t mean for you to get so emotional, and I know how you feel about going over to that side of town. All I meant is that you really need to get your car fixed – nothing more.”  
  
        Paul took a deep breath and nodded. He said, “Yes, you are right, of course, Schneider, but please just let me do this my own way.”  
  
        “Sure, Paul,” Schneider reassured him. “It’s up to you.”  
  
  
  
  
  
Paul walked over to the end of the kitchenette countertop where the telephone sat. He picked up the receiver and held it to the side of his head with his left hand. With his right hand, he began dialling the number of the receiving party. He liked calling this number for one reason and one reason alone: The number consisted solely of 8s, 9s and 0s, which meant that he could mesmerise himself with the protracted spinning of the rotary dial over and over again as he dialled out each digit of the number.  
  
        Paul could hear that the line was ringing. He wedged the telephone receiver between his shoulder and chin and then tilted his head to the left in order to take a firm hold onto the handset and press it against his ear, all while freeing up his hands. While waiting for this party to answer, Paul took the opportunity at last to put away the two coffee cups from which he and Schneider had been drinking earlier. They were on the drying rack and they had finally dried. Paul was annoyed at how long it took his dishes to dry, since there was no hot water in the kitchenette. He managed to put the two cups away back into the cupboard, take hold of the telephone handset again with his hand and straighten his head just in time for the party at the other end of the line to pick up the receiver.  
  
        “Ahoy!”, said the voice at the other end. The voice was that of Paul’s father, Anton.  
  
        “Hi, Dad,” Paul began. “Look, Dad, when you brought all those parcels over today, were you sure you brought everything?”  
  
        “I think so,” answered Anton in a tone of voice that was somewhat less than completely confident. “I packed it all up in the car and brought it all over to you.”  
  
        “Can you have another look? I was expecting something else as well. It’s rather important.”  
  
        “Does it have to be right now, Paul?” Anton asked, clearly bored.  
  
        “Yes, I really need it,” Paul insisted.  
  
        Paul could hear Anton take a deep sigh in annoyance and put the telephone handset down. Through the telephone, Paul could hear Anton shuffling around, moving books and papers, opening and closing cupboard doors and generally sounding busy. About a minute later, Anton returned to the telephone.  
  
        “No, nothing else. I’m sorry.”  
  
        Paul did not quite believe it. The parcels that Anton had brought to the house earlier that day had already been collecting at Anton’s house for several days. If by chance a part of the same delivery of parcels arrived later than the rest of them, and in Germany  that is not at all uncommon, then surely the rest of the delivery would have arrived by now.  
  
        “Of course, there was this little bottle of fluid, but I didn’t think you needed that, did you?” Anton chuckled dismissively.  
  
        “What?” should Paul “Yes! That’s the very thing I’m looking for!” Paul was both incredulous and furious. “Why on earth would you leave that behind, Dad?”  
  
        “Well, I’m sorry, Paul,” said Anton, sarcastically. “My arms were already full of your other things as I headed out to the car. I wasn’t going to make two trips just for a lousy bottle of fluid.”  
  
        “Dad, you need to bring it here right away,” Paul demanded of his father.  
   
        “Nothing doing, son.” Anton was almost insulted by the request. “By no means am I coming all the way over to your house again just to bring you a bottle of fluid.”  
  
        “I can’t use most of my other things until I get that fluid!” Paul explained.  
  
        “I will bring it next time, Paul. I won’t forget,” Anton assured him.  
  
        “What do you mean ‘next time’?” Paul tried to calm down and in a serious tone explained. “Dad, I really need you to get back into your car with that bottle of fluid and bring it to me. My work will be delayed if I don’t get that fluid.”  
  
        “Your work?” Anton once more became rather snide. “I think you waste enough of your own time on your so-called work. Don’t start wasting mine. I know you think your music is important. It isn’t. At least it is not important enough to me.”  
  
        Paul paused and took a deep breath before asking, “So that’s it then? You won’t bring me that fluid?”  
  
        “Sure, I will,” Anton promised, “Next time, I come by your house; that won’t be until at least tomorrow.”  
  
        “Oh, come on, Dad. What else do you have to do right now?”  
  
        “The answer is: no, Paul,” and with that, Paul heard a gentle click on the end of the line followed a few seconds later by a dial tone.  
  
        The bathroom door opened to release a large cloud of steam. Schneider stepped out into the living room with a large white towel around his waist and with a smaller white towel in his hands and being rubbed against his head in order to dry his hair. Schneider walked into the room just in time to see Paul hang up the telephone.  
  
        “Somebody call?” asked Schneider.  
  
        “No, I called somebody,” Paul explained, “My father in fact. There was one more parcel he forgot to bring with him.”  
  
        “So, is he coming back already?” Schneider asked him.  
  
        Paul snorted. “No,” he said, “I will get my very important bottle of fluid next time he comes by.”  
  
        “What kind of fluid is it exactly? You sure make it seem important,” said Schneider.  
  
        Paul walked over to his sofa chair by the living room table, sat down with his legs spread apart and leaned his head back. Looking at the ceiling, Paul answered, “It’s a special kind of head cleaner for the reel-to-reel tape recorder.”  
  
        “Is that all?” Schneider asked, somewhat puzzled at how seriously Paul was taking the situation. It seemed a little over-the-top. “We can find that sort of thing at any hi-fi store, Paul. We can go together right now, if you like!”  
  
        “No, no,” Paul explained, “This is a special kind of fluid made specially for these special reel tapes I ordered. Normal head cleaning fluid degrades that tape. It is a high-fidelity metal tape. I want our upcoming recording to be done right and with better quality right from the start. That was the point of getting all this special equipment sent to me in the first place. However, without that head-cleaning fluid, there’s not much work I can do at all.”  
  
        Paul sat forward in his chair, “My dad found the bottle of fluid at his house, but he won’t bring it over – all the more reason why I think he is a jerk.”  
  
        Schneider retorted, “All the more reason why you should get your car fixed and go get your parcels yourself – even if it does mean going to the West,” he finished with a wink.  
  
        “Don’t get me started,” said Paul.  
  
        The telephone rang. Schneider suggested, “Maybe that’s your father calling to say he changed his mind and is on his way.”  
  
        Paul rolled his eyes. “Don’t count on it,” he said as he got up out of his chair and walked to the kitchenette to answer the telephone. Schneider headed for the bedroom to put on a change of clothes, now that his shower was finished.  
  
        “Ahoy,” Paul answered as he picked up the handset receiver. “Oh, hi Till … Yeah, sure. I remember...Yes, that’s the plan...No... No, as it turns out, I don’t have everything we need to do that, not yet…Well, it’s a long story; suffice it to say that not everything we need has arrived yet…Really?...The man from the company is there with you…Actually, that’s okay. That’s good, in fact. There is something else we need to discuss…Sure…yeah, that’s fine, let’s do that…Yes, I can come right away, I will be there as soon as I can…See you soon, Till…Good bye.” With that, Paul hung up the telephone.  
  
        Now dressed, Schneider walked back into the living room to see Paul putting his shoes on at the door. Paul looked up while still tying his shoelaces., “Schneider,” he said, “I have to go see Till and his technical man for a little while. Do you mind watching the house for a while?”  
  
        “No problem,” Schneider assured him, and with that, Paul headed down the stairs.  
  
        Paul reached the bottom of the stairs, he once more heard the familiar and unpleasant sound of the front door to the ground-level apartment squeaking open. From behind the door, Herr Sauer stuck his head outside into the foyer.  
  
        “Who was that?” asked Herr Sauer in almost an accusatory tone.  
  
        “Good day to you too, Herr Sauer,” Paul replied sarcastically while rolling his eyes. After so many years of being neighbours, Paul could still not quite get used to such nosiness.  
  
        “Well, who was that?” Herr Sauer insisted.  
  
        “Who was who? Do you mean the man who left earlier or the man upstairs in my flat right now?”  
  
        “No, I mean the man on the telephone. I heard your telephone ring, but since you live seven floors up, I could not hear your voice or figure out whom you were talking to,” Herr Sauer specified, as if he were naturally owed an explanation.  
  
        “Oh, for Heaven’s sake!” Paul nearly screamed, “Please, just mind your own business. Now I have somewhere else to be.”  
  
        Herr Sauer was just about to open his mouth when Paul suddenly interjected, “And no! Don’t ask me where I am going or when I expect to be back!” shouted Paul as he walked past the mail table in the foyer, through the vestibule and out the door of his apartment building. Paul was eager to get away from the world’s greatest busy-body. Herr Sauer simply stood at his squeaky door with his mouth open. Paul was utterly convinced that Herr Sauer needed to get a new hobby.  
  
        In the meantime, Schneider decided that he would make himself useful while he waited for Paul to return from his meeting. He began picking up the flat a little bit. Certainly, Paul did not keep a dirty house by any means, but it would often get untidy during the week. Paul, being the typical Berliner, was quite the night-owl and he slept late into the day. Moreover, being the busy and rising rock star that he was, he was usually out of the house and did not always have the time or energy to keep everything around the house in order. He always made sure that the dishes were washed before going to bed, even though the water was cold and it took so long for them to dry. Paul could never get to sleep knowing that dirty dishes were in the sink all night. A bit of disorder in the living room and bedroom, however, did not seem to bother him.  
  
        Schneider looked at the living room table to see a jumbled mess of torn parcel paper, half-opened packages and cartons, big and small, containing the many bits of sound-recording devices and supplied that Paul had just received. Schneider took out a large plastic dustbin liner and began to throw away the wrappers and cardboard boxes that were on the table. He then neatly stacked the newly-arrived products on the corner of the table. Then he picked up the old newspapers lying around the room and threw them out. The magazines all went back into the magazine rack. He then took the carpets to the French doors and shook them out, and then he came inside and swept the floor.  
  
        Once he got the living room back into a rather respectable condition, Schneider decided to go straighten out the bedroom. He walked inside and went immediately over to the window to open up those heavy dark curtains. Given that Paul slept long into the day, as did Schneider whenever he spent the night, they needed the heavy curtains to keep out the sunlight while they slept. However, Schneider decided to let the light in so he could get a good view of the bedroom and see what needed to be done. He pulled the curtains wide open and then opened the window in order to let in some fresh air.  
  
        Having a look around, Schneider noticed Paul’s clothes bundled in little piles around the floor. He concluded that these were dirty, so he scooped them all up and placed them into a laundry basket. Some other articles of clothing Schneider reckoned were clean, such as a few shirts on clothes hangers hung on the door handle, as well as some trousers folded over the backs of a couple of chairs. Schneider took all those items and hung them neatly up in the closet.  
  
        Needless to say, the bed had still not been made, and already having a basket full of dirty laundry to wash, Schneider decided to take the opportunity to wash the bedclothes as well.  
  
        Schneider wondered how dirty those bedclothes really were, but then it suddenly occurred to him that dirty was a word that applied well to what was going on between those sheets. In spite of his affection for Paul, Schneider was frankly torn about the nature of their friendship. While Paul had long come to terms with his proclivity, Schneider wrestled with the question of the morality of what he and Paul so often did in that bed. Schneider stood still for a moment and simply looked down at the bed and thought about how safe he felt and how cosy it was when Paul was next to him a night. However, Schneider also felt guilty when he thought about how God was always watching him and how he could not excuse such deviant behaviour. Schneider was not the most devoutly religious person in the world, but he was a believer and took his faith seriously in most respects. At times, he would rationalise his behaviour and tell himself that there were worse sins in the world and that he should not take this one vice too seriously. After all, he was not hurting anyone else who did not choose to be involved and he was certainly doing a deliberate evil to anyone, right? Then it would suddenly strike him that his excuses simply made him unrepentant. Oh, what to do? On the one hand, he knew his faith demanded that he stop, but on the other hand, he could not imagine not spending those cosy nights next to his dear friend, Paul.  
  
        At last, Schneider simply shook his head and snapped out of his deep contemplation. This was an argument he had with himself many, many times before and he could battle his conscience forever on this dilemma. He just reached across the bed to peel off the sheets as quickly as he could. With any luck, he would be able to wash everything before Paul got back home from his meeting with Till. Quickly, he bundled up the bedsheets with everything inside: the pillowcases, the pillows, duvet covers and even a pair of slippers and who-knows-what-else that found its way into bed. Schneider reckoned that they could all use a wash, so he picked up a bundle, put it into the basket with the rest of the clothes and took the laundry basket over to the washer next to the kitchenette.  
  
        It would be nearly two hours before Paul would come back through the door. Schneider was sitting on a sofa-chair in the living room listening to the radio, having patiently waited for Paul to return.  
  
        “Ah! I see you’ve tidied up, Schneider,” said Paul, pleasantly surprised, “Thanks a lot!”  
  
        “You were gone a while,” remarked Schneider, “Everything alright?”  
  
        “Yeah, I think so,” Paul said with a certain degree of relief in this voice, “We were actually able to get a lot done and we sorted out quite a few details.  
  
        Paul sat down on the other sofa-chair by the living room table. He looked over at Schneider and said, “Still, we won’t be able to do much more until my dad brings me my head-cleaning fluid. We need to start recording right away. I hope my dad drops by tomorrow and brings it over.”  
  
        Schneider finally thought to ask the obvious question that had long ago occurred to him, “Why do all your mail and parcels got to your dad anyway, Paul? He lives so far away. Why not just have your things sent to you here at home?”  
  
        “For security reasons,” Paul explained, “My father has his own post office box, so when I get parcels or letters, I know nobody will steal them if they are at the post office waiting for him to come and collect. Here at this building, all the mail and parcels for the residents are simply spread out over a table in the entranceway. It is easy for mail to get lost and anyone can just come and steal whatever he wanted.”  
  
        “Does that really happen?” asked Schneider.  
  
        “Well,” continued Paul, “I don’t know how common that is, but the old man on the first floor, Herr Sauer, was once a block warden back in the bad old days and an informant for the East German secret police.”  
  
        “What?” interjected Schneider, “The Stasi? Not that miserable old toad on the first floor, surely!”  
  
        “Yes, indeed,” Paul confirmed. “Of course, since they no longer exist, the Stasi that is, he is no longer paid by them to inform on his neighbours, but he had not given up on the nosy habit of spying. I don’t like him finding out who in the building is getting what kind of visitors or mail from whom and then discussing it with everyone else. So, yeah, my dad gets my mail. When the car is working, I just drive over and pick it up from his post office box without even having to talk to him usually. I don’t think I actually see him more than twice or three times a year, otherwise, which is enough for me. Since the car broke, he has brought me my mail – along with all of his tiresome comments.”  
  
        The bell on the clothes dryer rang. “Ah, good,” said Schneider, “The laundry is dry.” Schneider got up to empty the dryer.  
  
        “You’ve been busy while I’ve been gone,” remarked Paul, “Thanks! I am going to put on some more coffee.” Paul headed to the opposite end of the kitchenette and began preparing the percolator. Schneider grabbed the empty laundry basket and walked over to the clothes dryer. He opened the front of the dryer and began removing the clean laundry, including the bedsheets. Before long, Paul noticed an ever-stronger fragrance. “What’s that smell?”, he asked.  
  
        Schneider could clearly smell it too, but he decided to play dumb. He realised he made a big mistake. “What’s what, Paul?” he asked as if he did not know.  
  
        “What is that? How much detergent did you use in the laundry? It smells so strong,” Paul said as he watched Schneider continue to unload the clothes dryer.  
  
        “I think you’re imagining things,” Schneider said, desperately hoping that Paul would change the topic.  
  
        “No way that is my usual detergent. The whole flat is beginning to smell like lavender. It is almost like –” Paul cut himself off short. His eyes grew wide and he dashed into the bedroom. First, he looked on his bedside table, both beside and behind the clock radio. He looked around on the floor and then got down on his hands and knees to look under the bed. Suddenly, he jumped up again and ran back into the living room and toward the clothes dryer at the end of the kitchenette.  
  
        “Schneider, where is my lavender bag?” Paul asked sternly.  
  
        “How should I know?” asked Schneider, terrified now that Paul learned of his mistake.  
  
        Paul dived into the laundry basket, shuffled around among the newly washed clothes and sheets, and before long he pulled out his lavender bag. It was flat and crushed and still a bit soggy. Clearly, it had gone through the wash.  
  
        “Oh no, Schneider!” said Paul. He held the crushed lavender bag in front of Schneider’s face. “What do you call this?”  
  
        Schneider shrugged his shoulders.  
  
        “Schneider, how could you let this get mixed up into the laundry?”  
  
        “Don’t look at me!” insisted Schneider.  
  
        “There are only two of us here, Schneider; it had to be you!” Paul replied.  
  
        “I’m not saying a word.” Schneider began to blush with embarrassment.  
  
        “Look, Schneider, I need that lavender to help me to get to sleep at night. And for heaven’s sake, all my clothes smell like lavender now!” Paul was visibly annoyed. He continued, “Lavender usually calms me down, Schneider. You are the only person I know who can turn it into something to drive me crazy.”  
  
        Schneider frowned in shame and felt worried. He was always uneasy when Paul was even just a little bit cross or annoyed with him. What was worse was that Schneider had no idea how to make the situation better. He simply asked Paul sheepishly, “What can I do to help this now, Paul?”  
  
        Paul could see that Schneider was really sorry and embarrassed over this mistake, but Paul understood it was not the end of the world. He tried to calm down a little. He sighed and then said, “Well, there’s not much we can do about this now, but…” he suddenly snapped his fingers and pointed straight at Schneider. “There’s no way I am going to bed without my lavender tonight. Go down to the Kollwitz market right now. You will find me some lavender and bring it home. The market should still be open,” Paul commanded.  
  
        Indeed, the market on Kollwitzstrasse was still open late in the afternoon when Schneider arrived. The street was still bustling with life, but not so much that it would have been difficult to move about, as it often is with hundreds of visitors squeezing their way between the lines of market stalls and booths lining either side of the street. As well, there were still plenty of things to buy.  
  
        Schneider quickly looked down at the ground as he felt something bump into him and move around his ankles. “Hey there, boy!” he said with a smile when he saw a long, short-legged dog at his feet. That dog was the unofficial mascot of the market. He belonged to one of the vendors there. He would find interesting things with which to play, and sometimes the lucky dog would be seen scurrying by with a treat, like a sausage, in its mouth.  
  
        Schneider lifted his gaze as the dog disappeared into the crowd, when something unusual caught his eye. He looked to his left to see a single table covered in different sized jars all containing a single food product. Not certain that he could quite make out what it was, Schneider slowly came closer and closer, until he could see the label. “How unusual,” he said out loud as he gleamed ever so closely. “Pickled pork lips.”  
  
        “What are you staring at, you creep?” shouted the old woman standing behind the table. Schneider was startled to receive such a hostile reception. He suddenly looked up to find a woman about eighty years old wearing a flowery Russian shawl over her head and shoulders. He wondered what he could have done to warrant such a reaction on the part of the old lady when he finally realised how his slow approach toward her market stall must have seemed. Now, Schneider was always rather self-conscious about it, but he was a little bit cross-eyed and otherwise had trouble with his sight. What this meant was that it did not always look to others that Schneider was looking in the direction he truly meant to look. As it turns out, as Schneider slowly walked toward the old lady’s market stand to get a better look at the unusual food items for sale, it appeared to the old lady that Schneider was staring straight at her and slowly coming close and closer – creepy indeed!  
  
        Schneider suddenly realised the misunderstanding and tried to apologise. “Oh no,” he said. “Please don’t get upset. I was just trying to get a better look at what you got there.”  
  
        “I bet you would want to see what I’ve got, you masher!” the old lady shouted.  
  
        “Ma’am, really, I don’t mean any trouble,” Schneider said in an attempt to calm the octogenarian down and to allay suspicions of any less-than-noble intentions on Schneider’s part; however, Schneider could not help but wonder whether the geriatric street vendor as simply flattering herself.  
  
        “Now, beat it!,” she demanded, “before I press charges for sexual harassment!”  
  
        “Well, soooooooory!” snapped Schneider as he turned to walk away, no longer willing to extend any congeniality this delusional old woman. Certainly, a woman in her eighties standing alone at a market stall and trying to sell something as odd and revolting as pickled pork lips is going to get a lot of stares. However, they would seldom be cases of sexual harassment.  
  
        Putting the unpleasant exchange behind him, Schneider continued to walk down Kollwitzstrasse as he looked at all the booths and stalls. At one point, he passed one vendor selling several tasty-looking fish sandwiches. Schneider thought to himself, “Good thing that Paul sent me to the market after all and that he did not come here himself. He would have spent all afternoon eating all the good food here and he would never have come home.”  
  
        Suddenly, Schneider took a deep breath and he sensed a familiar aroma. The small of sausages grilling. He turned his head to take a look, but then right next to the sausage vendor, he finally found what he had come to find. There stood a young girl at a small round table selling all manners of herbs and fragrances. He asked her kindly for a few bundles of lavender. The pretty young girl told Schneider, “Good choice. You know, this lavender will help you sleep better.”  
  
        Schneider replied with a distinct tone of relief, “Oh, believe me! Now that I found some more lavender, I will definitely sleep much, much better.”  
  
  
  
  
  
Schneider returned to Paul’s flat, lavender in hand, to find that the flat was unexpectedly empty. “Paul,” Schneider called out just to see if Paul was elsewhere in the flat. No answer. Neither did he hear the shower running. Schneider set the lavender down onto the living room table and was headed toward the bedroom to step inside to see if Paul was taking a nap. He stopped short on the way when he saw that Paul had left a note on the kitchenette countertop. Schneider picked it up and squinted to read, “I took the tram to my dad’s house to get that bottle of cleaning fluid. I’ll try not to take too long.”  
  
        Schneider wondered how long long would turn out to be, considering that the tram ride to Anton Hiersche’s house in Treptow was a two-hour-long round trip – and that is just travel time. It would take some ten minutes for Paul to get hold of the bottle of cleaning fluid and then perhaps another fifteen minutes for the inevitable argument that ensues whenever Paul and his father are in the general vicinity of one another. Schneider therefore counted on a good three hours before he would see Paul again. Schneider put the note back down and said under his breath, “Why can’t you just get your car fixed, Paul?”  
          
        All the same, this gave Schneider an opportunity spend some calm time alone. He went over to the armchair in the corner of the room, sat himself down and then reached over to turn on the old Telefunken radio sitting on the window ledge. Schneider had always had a great interest in everything to do with radio and he enjoyed tuning in distant stations. He had a wide variety of tastes, but he could never listen while Paul was in the house, since Paul was always talking to Schneider and did not even give Schneider five minutes of peace and quiet without interrupting. This was especially irritating, since Schneider listened mostly to spoken-word programmes, and he tried to listen carefully. Paul had a unique ability to begin talking right when the programme would reach a point for which Schneider had been waiting for an hour. Schneider might miss the whole point of the programme, thanks to Paul’s incessant jaw-flapping.  
          
        However, right now, Paul’s wasn’t home.  
          
        Schneider decided to give the tuning dial a whirl to find out what was coming over the airwaves. Between the hissing and static-filled whistling that turned up as he turned the knob, Schneider found more than a dozen stations in about as many languages. Finally, he settled on one channel that came in clearly. It was a broadcast in French, just one of the several languages that Schneider mastered. He leaned back in the armchair to relax and listen. He settled in and found that he was listening to Holy Mass broadcast directly from Paris. Schneider knew the liturgy well.  
          
        Meanwhile, Anton Hiersche sat in his living room chair when he was suddenly startled by a sudden and much unexpected banging on the door. The professor went over and opened the door to find his son, Paul, standing at the threshold.  
          
        “Paul!” exclaimed Anton in genuine surprise. He knew that Paul did not like to see him more often than absolutely necessary. “Come on in, Paul”, he said as he turned and walked away from the door to return to his armchair. Paul stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He followed Anton to the living area, but remained standing.  
  
    “You know, Paul”, began Anton, “had I understood that your little bottle really was that important, I would have brought it right over.”  
  
    “How magnanimous of you, Dad,” said Paul in a tone that even a grandmaster in the art of sarcasm would struggle to equal. “There it is,” said Paul as he picked the small bottle of recording head cleaner fluid up off the table and quickly pocketed it.  
  
       Paul quietly turned toward the door when his father commented, “It’s not nice to see I raised a son with such single-minded passion for his fruitless pastimes. It’s too bad that I could not channel that energy toward more productive pursuits.”  
           
        Paul spun around to face his father and he could almost feel his eyes rolling in his head. Incredibly, thought Paul, his father never ran out of energy for picking fight. Paul retorted, “Aren’t you even a little bit happy for me that I’ve found something I really like doing and that I am good at it?”  
          
        “Happy about what, Paul?” replied Anton. “Happy about you doing the sort of things that used to get you so close to getting into some serious trouble? I’m sorry if I seem to carry a grudge, Paul, but with every parcel of yours I receive here at the house containing some insipid rock ‘n’ roll gadget or another, I am reminded of the pain you brought to the household with your rebellious behaviour. I am reminded of having done so much to protect you. So many favours I had to call in to keep the authorities at bay and to protect you from the consequences of your own recklessness.”  
  
        “Protect me? You were only trying to protect your own reputation among your uptight party comrades and your professional position. There was no way that the illustrious Professor Hiersche could bear the scandal of having such a deviant son, now was there? I know you had no choice then, Dad, but everything has changed. Now things are different.”  
  
        “Different?” snorted Anton, “You are no different, Paul. You were a punk rocker then and you are a punk rocker now. The only difference is that your now can get away with being an embarrassment.”  
  
        “Well,” snapped Paul in reply, “that’s the one thing that really has changed, isn’t it? Only you’ve never noticed. People find their own way in life now. There’s no need to be embarrassed. If you want to be embarrassed, be embarrassed about yourself! Be embarrassed about how a brilliant professor can be so detached from the reality of the times! You come to me offering jobs in offices that no longer exist! You drop the names of has-beens like Walther Schramm!” Paul noticed that he was getting flustered. He took a deep breath and then tried calmly to continue, “Dad, it’s like they dug you up from inside a time capsule. So much has changed so quickly. And sure, it wasn’t all easy; sometimes it still isn’t, but there is no place for a man like you who has always stayed the same. You might be comfortable with that – fine. I am comfortable with what I do. Sure, I know this is not the life you envisioned for me, but it is my life, Dad.”  
  
        Anton sat down on the living room sofa and took a deep breath. He too tried to remain calm. The professor was not a stupid man. Of course, he understood what Paul was saying at a rational level, but it was so hard for him to process emotionally. Was his entire life’s work and were the values he held since childhood all a lie? Few men could absorb something like that very easily.  
  
        “You know, Paul,” Anton looked up at his son. “It’s like you said. Every father has dreams for his son. The son might not follow in his father’s footsteps exactly, but he should have a sense of the values with which his father nurtured him.”  
  
        “Nurtured?” Paul nearly shouted in shock. “What do you mean nurtured? I was a sickly child and you were resigned to the notion that since I would probably die young, there was no point in caring about me. You just nurtured your own vicious career echoing a bunch of nonsense about how wonderful socialism was. You were a climber, Dad, and you climbed over corpses to win the favour of evil men!”  
  
        “Knock it off!” shouted Anton with rage.  
  
        Anton and his son stared blankly into each other’s eyes, both frowning, neither saying a word for nearly half a minute. It was the proverbial pin-drop moment.  
  
        Then the telephone rang.  
  
        Anton got up off the sofa and walked over to answer the telephone on the end table at the other side of the room. Turning around, he resumed staring at Paul as he lifted the telephone receiver and pressed it to his ear.  
  
        “Anton Hiersche,” he said to the hitherto unknown party at the other end of the line. After a couple of seconds, Anton extended his arm and pointed the receiver at his son. “It’s for you,” he said in a low cold tone. Paul slowly rose and walked over to take the receiver from his father. Paul remained standing and Anton returned to the sofa.  
  
        Paul spoke into the telephone receiver, “Ahoy…yes…oh hi, Till…how did you know I was here?...oh right, you tried my house first and Schneider told you…no…no, I don’t know…what, tonight?...we are playing that private party tonight?...you mean later this evening…where?...you mean the studio loft across from my house…when do we need to start setting up?...what, now?...alright, I’ll be there as soon as I can.” With that, Paul hung up the telephone and with complete abandon as if he had just forgotten their heated discussion from barely a minute prior, Paul said, “Dad, I need to borrow your car. I need to get to work right away. Big job tonight!”  
  
        A thousand thoughts ran through Anton’s mind at that very moment. How dare Paul take him for granted like that right there and then? If Paul and his generation changed the world for the better and knew more about how life worked than Anton did, why did Paul always need Anton’s help? In fact, it occurred to Anton that the only time Paul ever did speak to him was when he wanted help, be it with delivering parcels, collecting mail and now lending his car. Anton remembered always being able to manage all his own affairs all the time. He was disciplined enough to persevere no matter what the circumstances. That was what allowed him to give Paul and the whole family a decent life. Paul got to do all sorts of things that most people in the DDR never could dream of getting away with doing. Anton’s knack for fitting into the system was also what afforded Paul the opportunity to travel abroad, to get an electric guitar as a gift from his mother when he was fourteen years old – a guitar he could play only because Anton let him learn on his acoustic guitar. Paul thrived because Anton was so much a part of the system. Did Anton need to tow the socialist party line? Sure, he did, but Anton could not have known that system would ever change and that any other way of life would ever be possible. Frankly, Paul could not have known that either. Anton did not make the rules, but he knew he had to play the game in order for his family to live a tolerable life. Paul’s constant rebellion against the authorities and his association with foreigners and political malcontents threatened repeatedly to undermine Anton’s position in East German society, and to bring down the precarious house of cards that was the relatively affluent lifestyle of the Hiersche family. Anton never felt that Paul appreciated him and that he underestimated him. Anton was no crass boor after all. He was not at all comatose to the fact that the German Democratic Republic was under the rule of an utterly dysfunctional system of government, but Anton managed to thrive. Maybe the time had come for the old system to end, but was the new system any better? That was: a system of naïve young people, like Paul, left without any external guidance, free to indulge in any flight of fancy that occurs to them – a new country in which everyone is entitled to his own small opinion and is obsessed with his own fruitless libertine distractions, no longer harbouring a sense of duty to the society at large.  
  
        Anton concluded that both during the old system and the new system that he could cope with life far better than Paul ever could. How dare Paul talk to him the way he does? How dare Paul moralise about what Anton had to do to make a good life for Paul, in spite of the titanic obstacles people faced under socialism? How dare Paul suggest that Anton was detached from the reality of modern times, and how dare Paul, after all the angry words just exchanged, have the audacity to demand that Anton lend him his car?  
  
        Anton’s mind was full of so many of such thoughts that his head felt warm, his hands felt clammy as his feet were shaking. He took a deep breath, looked Paul straight in the eye and mustered up all his strength and courage to say what were to be the very next words out of his mouth.  
  
        “Alright, son. Take the car. I will pick it up again tonight.”  
  
  
  
  
  
Schneider stood by the kitchenette counter back at Paul’s flat with the telephone receiver in his hand. “Tonight, across the street?...Sure, what time?...In about four hours then….yes, I’ll be there.” Schneider assured Paul that he would show up in time for the rather hastily planned jam session for a private party right across the street from Paul’s building.”  
  
        “Schneider,” said Paul at the other end of the telephone line, “just show up by 9:30. Everything will be set up for us.”  
  
        Schneider was visibly relieved. He did not fancy spending the rest of the afternoon setting up, not only his drum kit, but the entire lighting and sound system. However, this being a small private party, the set up was not going to be elaborate.  
  
        “Are you still at your dad’s house?” asked Schneider.  
  
        “Yes,” answered Paul, “but I am just about to leave. I need to run a bunch of errands, collect a few people and start setting up the recording equipment. At last, I have the recording head cleaner fluid I came for.”  
  
        “Paul,” interjected Schneider with a clear hint of worry in his voice, “you will never have time to do all that before you need to get to the gig!”  
  
        “Oh, don’t worry,” Paul assured him, “I am borrowing my dad’s car tonight.”  
  
        Schneider rolled his eyes in disbelief. “You are not depriving your father of his car all night, are you?”  
  
        “Not at all. He’s going to come pick it up at the end of the night,” said Paul. “Look, I had better get going, Schneider. I will see you at the gig tonight”, and with that, the very next thing Schneider heard was the click of Paul hanging up the other end. Schneider put the receiver back down and then went into the bedroom to lie down, fully clothed, for a nap. He wanted to be well-rested in time for the gig that evening. However, after about fifteen minutes of lying on his back, Schneider could not get to sleep at all. He was both worried and annoyed about Paul having borrowed Anton’s car. Frankly, Schneider was sick and tired of the constant bickering between Paul and Anton. Schneider hardly heard about anything else all day. As much as he tried to stay out of Paul’s personal dispute with his father, it did have an effect on him. Schneider would look forward all day, at times waiting to meet up with Paul to go hang out or do something fun - only to find Paul in a bad mood all evening long.  
  
        Schneider turned over on his side, becoming ever more restless as he thought about the terrible mood Paul would likely be in that night, both during the show and especially after the show given that at some time in the evening, Anton himself would show up to collect his car. No doubt there would be a falling out then as well. Of course, Schneider largely blamed Anton for his stubbornness and his apparent unwillingness to encourage Paul in anything he did. However, he could not help but to wonder if there was nothing Paul could do in order to help the two to understand each other better. It was not like the two did not see each other often enough. Surely, they could bond as father and son, as easily as they told each other off.  
  
        Still restless and worried about the next argument that would ensure between Paul and Anton, Schneider turned over once more in bed, this time lying face down, in the vain hope he would find it more comfortable and that he would finally be able to drift off and fall asleep for a few hours before he had to perform.  
  
        It occurred to Schneider that there was probably a part of Paul that actually valued and enjoyed the constant strife he had with his father. After all, that was perhaps the one and only thing the two had in common. If Paul had his mail and parcel delivered directly to the house, he would have no need to see Anton very much at all. Of course, with that former Stasi busy-body, Herr Sauer, downstairs at the bottom floor, there was no way Paul was going to have anything delivered to the house. On the other hand, Schneider knew that Paul had keys to Anton’s house, Paul could go to Anton’s house and collect his mail when Anton was not at home. Anton would not need to come over to Paul’s house at all, and Schneider wouldn’t need to listen to all the arguing – if only Paul had a working car, that was.  
  
        Just then, a lightbulb went on in his head. Schneider suddenly sprung out of bed. He opened the bedroom door and walked out to the kitchenette counter where he found the Yellow Pages next to the telephone. After about a minute of looking, he put the telephone directory down, picked up the telephone receiver and dialled. The very next words out of Schneider’s mouth were, “Hello? West End Auto Repair? Hi, I have a car that needs repairing. Can you send a tow truck?”  
  
  
  
  
  
After having dropped of a couple of people at the house where the night’s party was to be held, Paul promptly drove across the street to his own house in Anton’s car. He was amazed at what good timing he was making in preparing everything for the evening performance across the street. In fact, he was able to summon enough help and put enough people to work that all he had to do was shower and change clothes. He even surprised himself at how efficient he could be when he really had to take action. Maybe he should have become a businessman after all.  
  
        Paul parked his father’s car on the street outside his house, stepped out, closed and locked the door and then walked hurriedly up the steps to the front door before opening the glass entrance door and walking inside. “Great timing,” thought Paul as he approached the stairwell leading up to this flat. “Barring any unexpected interruptions, I should have plenty of time. Great!”  
  
        Just at that moment, Paul heard an all-too-familiar sound.  
  
        “Herr Landers?” a voice echoed in the entryway as Paul approached the first step on the stairwell. The voice was that of Herr Sauer.  
  
        “Herr Landers, could I have a word?” he added.  
  
        Paul sighed in irritation. Paul had been making such good time that night preparing for his gig. God forbid he should end up falling behind due to Herr Sauer’s incessant busy-bodying.  
  
        “What is it now, Herr Sauer?” Paul asked with exhaustion.  
  
        “I have something for you”, explained Herr Sauer, “I meant to give it to you much earlier. I have had it with me for months and I just keep forgetting. Please.” He extended his hand out toward Paul. In his hand was a plain white envelope. On it was Paul’s name and address, written by hand. In the top right-hand corner was a French postage stamp. The postmark read “Paris” and the date on the post mark was some three months earlier, long before Paul started having his mail sent to his father. Paul figured it must have been a letter from his friend Sebastian who moved to Paris. Of course, Paul was interested in reading what Sebastian had to say, but he was even more interested in knowing why Herr Sauer had this letter in his possession all this time. Looking carefully at the envelope, Paul was annoyed, but not at all surprised, to find that the letter had already been opened.  
  
        Being far too livid to shout in anger, Paul simply asked coldly “What are you doing with this letter, Herr Sauer?”  
  
        “I was very concerned,” explained Herr Sauer, “that a letter was addressed to you coming from a foreign country and it did not have a return address. It was very suspect. However, I read it any found that it was quite innocent. It is from a fellow named Sebastian – a friend of yours, I presume. Well, there you are,” said Herr Sauer as he extended his arm once more, letter in hand, to give it to Paul “I am sure you are eager to read a letter from your friend.”  
  
        Paul was incredulous. He could do nothing but to look straight ahead at Herr Sauer’s face in astonished silence. “There is something seriously wrong with you,” was all that Paul wanted to say to him, but he was too much in shock to utter a single word at that moment. Herr Sauer has always been too nosy for his own or anybody else’s good, but this time, it really took the biscuit. A thousand thoughts were running through Paul’s mind as he stood there staring at the old man. How could this man take a letter clearly addressed to somebody else, open it, read it and then keep it for months? How could he speak in reassuring tones about ensuring that the letter did not pose any reason for concern and that it was safe – safe for the intended recipient to receive and to read? This self-congratulatory, self-appointed chaperone for everyone around him reached a new level of sliminess. Indeed, Paul thought, there was something seriously wrong with this man.  
  
        The anger inside of Paul began to swell over. For the first time ever, Paul thought he felt the urge to kill.  
  
        Paul took a deep breath and he prepared to give Herr Sauer the shouting-down of a lifetime. He clenched his fist around the envelope, took a step forward and looked deep into Herr Sauer’s smug face and suddenly realised that he was looking into the eyes – of an utterly empty shell of a man. At that moment, it occurred to Paul that he never once saw Herr Sauer leave the house in all the time Paul lived there. He never saw Herr Sauer receive a visitor. He did not have any family visit, nor did he visit them. He did not have a romance nor was there any indication that he had ever been married.  
  
        Paul could not recall ever having seen Herr Sauer have new furniture delivered, wear a new suit, engage in a hobby, read a novel, play music of any kind or even order a pizza. Looking into the pale face of Herr Sauer, Paul finally realised that spying on other people was Herr Sauer’s whole life, his very reason for living.  
  
        The reason why Herr Sauer had no friends at all was that he distrusted people and people distrusted him. He spent years spying on people on behalf of the Stasi. He spent night after night demanding explanations as to why dinner parties in his building went on thirty minutes later than planned. He spent his evenings imposing curfews on grown people and enforcing them, giving the third degree to anyone coming home late, even due to missing a tram. Occupational injury is what Paul figured it would be called these days, but the fact remained that Herr Sauer’ obnoxious nosiness was the very essence of his being.  
  
        The world around had changed so, so much since the Wall had fallen, but Herr Sauer had no place in that world. It would have been far easier for him to go pick apples on the moon than it would be to stop spying on people. His incessant prying had become so second nature that it would be a kind of suicide for him to stop.  
  
        “Poor Herr Sauer,” thought Paul, “He will never, can never and could never, ever, ever change!”  
  
        “Anything else, Herr Landers?” asked Herr Sauer, suddenly bringing Paul back from deep within his own thoughts.  
  
        Paul’s anger immediately turned into resignation as he finally realised the nature of the pitiful being standing in front of him.  
  
        “No, Herr Sauer,” Paul said calmly, “How considerate of you to make sure this letter was safe for me to receive. Good night.”  
  
        “Good night, Herr Landers”.  
  
  
          
  
Paul had promised Anton that the party across the street from his house would not be especially late. It would certainly be over by midnight. Anton needed his car early in the morning, so he wanted to get the car keys back from Paul that evening.  
  
        At 10:30 pm, Anton climbed aboard a tram and headed out to see Paul in time for the latter part of the performance. Anton worried perhaps that he was heading out too late, as it was a long ride. “Well,” thought Anton, “if I am late and miss him at the party, I can just go to his flat. Paul will be awake all night anyway. He always is.”  
  
        After spending nearly an hour on the rather pleasant late-night ride, a familiar face came onboard. It was the woman he had first met earlier that day, Paul’s neighbour, Heike Hoffmann.  
  
        Frau Hoffmann did not see Anton at first, and she looked straight ahead toward the back of the tram for an unoccupied seat. As she walked past Anton, he suddenly rose to speak to her.  
  
        “Frau Hoffmann,” he exclaimed. “Would you care to sit here with me? Do you remember me? I’m Anton Hiersche. We met this morning.”  
  
        “Professor Hiersche, no less,” she said. “Yes, I remember you.”  
  
        She sat down next to Anton and rested her rather large wicker shopping bag on her lap. The bag was clearly heavy, and it make a clunky sound, as if it contained a large number of jars.  
  
        “So, professor,” Frau Hoffmann asked, “what brings you out this time of night?”  
  
        Anton snorted, “I’ll let you guess. I won’t mention names, but his initials are Paul”.  
  
        “Two errands for your son in one day?” she asked. “You two must be very close.”  
  
        “Don’t you believe it,” Anton corrected the old lady. “Today is a complete fluke. I only get to see Paul when he wants something of me. Then he generally tells me to get lost.”  
  
        Heike was curious. “What begrudging favour are you doing for your ungrateful son now?”  
  
        “Oh no, I’ve already done it,” he clarified. “I lent him my car for the evening. I am going now to collect it.”  
  
        Heike Hoffmann could clearly detect the annoyance in Anton’s tone of voice. She said, “For someone who clearly feels mistreated by his son, you sure do extend yourself consistently.”  
  
        “I’m sick of doing Paul favours,” Anton insisted.  
  
        “Yet, you do them,” Heike pointed out.  
  
        “I live so far away from him. I’m hardly the only person he could ask to do the things he asks me to do!”  
  
        “Yet, he still asks you,” Heike observed.  
  
        Anton just shook his head and went silent.  
  
        “There must be something you both get out of this, “ Heike concluded. “What is it you hope for each time you see him? This will be the second time you see him today!”  
  
        “The third,” Anton corrected. “This will be the third. He came to my place earlier to get something I forgot to deliver this morning. That is when he borrowed the car.”  
  
        “And surely you didn’t need the car right now – I mean tonight. Do you really need it early tomorrow? On a Sunday?”  
  
        “Well, maybe I just want the car back, alright?” snapped Anton, forgetting himself.  
  
        “I don’t buy it, Professor,” the old woman snapped back.  
  
        “There must be something you are hoping for each time you see Paul – something new to happen.”  
  
        Anton leaned forward in his seat, rested his elbows on his knees and placed his head in his hands. He was tired and frustrated already, and he was not prepared for such an intense amount of self-reflection or for having to confront the reality of the deteriorating dynamic between him and his son.  
  
        He drew a deep breath as he leaned back again to sit up straight. “You know, Frau Hoffmann,” he said, “You’re right. Now that I think of it, I do want something of Paul. I hope for it every time I see him, although I see no sign of it. That something is: change.  
  
        “Every time I meet Paul, I hope that he will have grown up just a little. I am longing for him finally to understand the difference between a job and a hobby. I am waiting for the day he introduces me to some new level-headed and successful friends of his. Don’t think for a second that I don’t want to extend him any favours – I do! I want him to ask my advice on career goals – advice I would be happy to share. I want him to ask me to introduce him to contacts I have that can get him started on a real career path.  
  
        “You ask me what I want from Paul, Frau Hoffmann, I want him to realise that life changes as we get older, and that we must grow up and change along with life, or life will pass us all by.”  
  
        Heike replied in all frankness, “Do you want Paul to change for his own sake and his own benefit – or for yours?”  
        “What do you mean?” Anton was genuinely puzzled.  
  
        “Just listen to yourself!” Heike commanded. “You want Paul to change by taking your advice, using your connections and to find new friends of whom you approve. What changes have you made? What makes you think that the things that have worked for you before will work for Paul now?”  
  
        “Anton”, she continued, “when you see Paul tonight, tell him that you now understand that he has to find his own way. Yes, the world changes and we all need to change with it, but I am not sure you have changed, Professor. As I see it, you want Paul to change in a way that allows you to stay the same. Speaking of growing up, it is exactly because Paul has grown up that you need to change and not relate to him like he were still a child.”  
  
        Anton sighed, “We all want the best for our children, Frau Hoffmann. I just don’t think that this rock music stuff can be made into a career”.  
  
        She replied, “Maybe not, Professor, but then Paul will change once more and do something else more successful,” said Heike. “In the meantime, you should encourage him in what he does and have enough faith in him that he will know when to try something different. After all, Professor, I am eighty-one years old. Do you think I have always done the same thing all my life?”  
  
        “Well,” wondered Anton, “what is it that you do anyway, Frau Hoffmann?”  
  
        “Oh, I thought you would never ask!” she answered excitedly. Heike reached into the big wicker bag, took out a jar and placed it firmly into Anton’s hands, placing her hands on top of his. “I sell these at the market. A hobby, yes, but I really enjoy it and I don’t need the money anymore.”  
  
        She pressed the button on the tram to request the next stop. “I need to go now, Professor. Please think about what I said, and remember, you said you want to see a change. The first things that needs to change is the hostility between you and your son.”  
  
        With that, Heike Hoffmann stepped off the tram, leaving Anton to continue on his way to see Paul and to collect his car. He reflected carefully on what this old lady had told him. Anton always thought highly of his professional rank, perhaps too highly, and this made him reluctant to take anyone’s advice except his own. However, he did have respect for people much older than he. It was therefore easy for him to give Frau Hoffmann’s words the most serious consideration. Indeed, while he spent years despairing that he would never see a change in Paul, he paid no mind to the most urgently needed change of all: that of his relationship to his only son. After all, Anton was not at all looking for an opportunity to tell Paul, “I told you so.” On the contrary, Anton wanted to assure Paul that he would be there for him if he needed him. Perhaps, Anton thought, his worrying and giving of unwanted advice was premature. “That’s it,” Anton thought, “I’ll stop bothering Paul about his work with his music. I’ll tell him – I’ll tell him tonight – that I am behind him no matter what. After all, I don’t want to crush his dreams; I just want to spare him from nightmares. That’s right. See? I can change. I’ll change for the sake of my relationship with my son.”  
  
        With that, Anton remembered Heike Hoffmann and offered a silent “thank you” to her for imparting such wisdom. Suddenly, he remembered that he was holding in his hands the jar Heike had given him. He looked down to see exactly what it was, and he read the label. “How unusual,” he thought to himself, “pickled pork lips?”  
  
  
          
  
  
Paul walked briskly out of his top-floor flat and down seven flights of stairs. Reaching the landing at the bottom, Paul was hasty in passing by the mail table and heading straight through the glass doors at the entrance to the building. The last thing Paul wanted at this moment was to see Herr Sauer once more.  
  
        Paul continued across the car park and crossed the street. He walked into the breezeway of the large old storage building across the street, where he found the service lift half-way through the tunnel. “Ah, super!” thought Paul. “At least, I won’t need to walk down the stairs with all that gear later.” Just as Paul had pressed the button to summon the lift, he heard the sound of a car engine approaching. He turned to see a car entering the breezeway and pulling up to where the lift was located. It took a few seconds for Paul to recognise the car. It was his own. The driver’s door opened, and Schneider emerged.  
  
        “Schneider!” exclaimed Paul. “What’s going on here? What are you doing with my car?”  
  
        “The very thing you would never deign to do,” said Schneider, and he winked as he closed the driver’s side door behind him and walked up to Paul. Paul had a puzzled look on his face as he tried to make sense of Schneider’s somewhat cryptic answer. Suddenly, Schneider gave Paul a soft a mocking punch to the shoulder.  
  
        “Paul, I got your car fixed, you silly goose! That’s right. I took it down to the west end and got it fixed. No more messing around, alright?”  
  
        Paul’s eyes opened wide in amazement, as he smiled with delight. He walked around the car as he kept looking into the passenger cabin with the glee of a schoolboy in a candy store.  
  
        “Aww, you shouldn’t…you shouldn’t have done this Schneider,” was all Paul could say. “Thank you”, he managed to squeeze past his larynx while trying to compose himself.  
  
        “You’re welcome, my friend,” said Schneider with a self-satisfied look on his face.  
  
        “You know,” Paul suddenly was quick to add, “I was just about to take the car to the west end to get it fixed anyway.”  
  
        Schneider rolled his eyes, “Oh get real, Paul!” He tried not to laugh at Paul’s absurd statement. “Are you a musician or a comedian?”  
  
        Schneider summoned the freight lift. Let’s get upstairs and put on the show of our lives”  
  
        It took only thirty minutes to fill the loft with excited rock fans. Now with the sound checks done, the guitars restrung, the microphones set up, the drumkit assembled and, yes, the band members all finally arriving, Paul could hardly wait to get on with the performance. The tension was building. The rumble of the crowd grew louder and louder. There could hardly have been one hundred spectators present, but in that small loft, it felt like a packed stadium awaiting the event of the year.  
  
        At last, the lights dimmed, and the band walked out onto stage. There were muted murmurs emanating from the audience, the anticipation was immense. Suddenly, the coloured lights burst to life over the stage. Till Lindemann, the lead singer grabbed the microphone and began to sing. The crown went wild with delight and began to dance and clap to the music. Schneider at the drums was so intensely concentrated on the music that he could hardly help but to scream. Guitarist Richard started in on an improvised solo guitar riff that was far too loud and much to Paul’s disliking. Oliver, the bass player, remained stoic as he faithfully plucked out the low notes, while Flake on the keyboard was performing with some clever effects.  
  
        Paul saw the look on the faces in the audience. The joy in their eyes was genuine. Paul worked so hard so that these people could have a good time, and their pure enjoyment was all the thanks he needed. Paul finally found people who understood him, even though they were total strangers. He spent his whole life trying vainly to make himself understood to those closest to him. On this night, in the course of a single musical performance, he successfully reached out to a hundred. “This,” thought Paul, “This is what I do well.” No more would Paul search for the approval of others; rather, he would simply seek those who already approved – and indeed, they were coming to him!  
  
        There was no turning back for Paul. As he expertly plucked out every note on his guitar, he felt a tingling down his spine as he saw the joy-filled faces in the crowd. The resonance between him and his audience was palpable. They were on his wavelength. He was in his zone. Paul wondered, “Is there more to life than this?”  
  
        At the end of the performance, the audience refused to leave without an encore. The band happily obliged. Had he been asked, Paul could quite honestly have proclaimed that he would have been happy to do the entire show again. There was no doubt in his mind that he was in his element.  
  
        The event ended, and the evening came to a close. Slowly, but surely, the crowd petered out of the building as the ceiling lights slowly grew brighter and brighter. Over the next several minutes, the last of the stragglers finished their drinks and trickled out of the loft leaving only Schneider on stage to pack up his drumkit, and Paul to switch off the soundboard and to wrap up the speaker wires and patch-cords, the rest of the band having found after-parties to attend elsewhere. However, Paul saw one solitary figure remaining in the loft. This figure slowly approached Paul in a straight line and walked right up to the makeshift stage where Paul was standing. It was Paul’s father, Professor Anton Hiersche.  
  
        Paul was expecting Anton to come collect the car keys, but his eyes open wide with surprise to learn that Anton had actually showed up in time to hear and to see some of the show. To think that his father would ever attend one of Rammstein’s performances was inconceivable enough, but what Anton would immediately say was shocking.  
  
        “I get it now, son,” said Anton, “Paul, I understand what you are doing, and I am glad you are doing it.”  
  
        Paul was astonished. Was it really possible that his stubborn old father finally came around? Were all those years of arguments finally sinking into this intractable socialist bureaucrat’s brain? What was it that won him over?  
  
        Anton continued, “Please understand, Paul, that all parents have dreams for their children. It is hard for us to see when children take an unexpected turn in life – but now I realise that I only wanted you to change for my sake, not for your sake. I won’t pressure you to change anymore.”  
  
        Paul could barely believe his ears. What a transformation in his father and quickly it took place! Paul was at a loss for words.  
  
        Anton continued, “I saw the looks on the faces of the people here tonight, Paul. You really gave them something they enjoyed – something that fills their lives and that they would sorely miss if you were to stop now. In fact, Paul, I remember years ago when punk musicians and fans risked getting into a lot of trouble just for the sake of the music, and I never understood why they did that -until now. I can see how much you mean to your fans and what the whole experience means to you. So, I’ve come to tell you that I have changed my mind. Paul. I want you to continue with your work with Rammstein.”  
  
        Paul resisted the urge to pinch himself. He thought he must be dreaming, but once everything Anton had to say had made its way into Paul’s brain, a wave of relief came over Paul. “At last,” thought Paul, “at last the fights are over. At last, no more nagging about me finding a “real” job. No more hounding me about how I need to think about my future.” Could it be that Paul would finally, finally have a normal relationship with his father? The moment truly came as a form of deliverance. A three-decade-old weight had finally been lifted off Paul’s shoulders. Truly, this was a catharsis.  
  
        Paul was about to burst into tears of joy and relief when Anton continued, “Indeed, I want you to continue your work with Rammstein for the time being. I see that people are into the fad you and your friends have created and that it still had a lot of steam left in it. I say make the most of it while you can. It might even make you some extra spending money, who knows?”  
  
        Paul’s heart sank. How quickly his mood changed upon hearing these words from his father.  
  
        However, Anton had even more to say, “Of course, all these people who came here tonight to hear you will eventually grow out of it and this little musical undertaking of yours will finally run out of steam – oh, but that’s not a criticism, Paul,” Anton hastened to add. “That’s doesn’t mean you shouldn’t make the most of it while you can – and you will even have a lot of fun at it! Sure!” Anton sincerely believed he was offering genuine encouragement.  
  
        He decided finally to get to the point, “What I’ve come to tell you is this, Paul: Just follow your heart for now, and once you have gone as far as you can with your music hobby, just come and tell me. I promise I will still be here to help you get into a real career. I will still be here for you. There will be no I-told-you-sos, and I won’t embarrass you. It will just be a matter of a father helping his son, man-to-man. That is all I ever wanted to offer you, Paul.”  
  
        The rage burning within Paul’s heart was kept in check only by the bafflement occupying his mind. How could Anton still not understand. How could his father come to Paul immediately after his finest moment and utterly smash everything Paul had succeeded in creating, and even disguise such destruction within a veneer of fatherly concern?  
  
        Paul reached into his pocket, pulled out Anton’s car keys and then tossed them toward Anton, who caught them at his chest. Paul snapped, “If this is what you have come to tell me, you might as well get lost!”  
  
        Anton was honestly bewildered. With a puzzled look on his face with his hands extended out at his side, Anton simply stared at Paul not knowing what to make of his son’s reaction. After all, Anton truly believed he was trying to reconcile with his son. “Paul,” he said, “I really don’t understand you.”  
  
        Paul sighed, “I know dad, and I don’t think you ever will.”  
  
        Anton quickly turned his back and walked away through the larger door to the loft and disappeared down the stairs leaving only Paul and Schneider in the loft. Schneider had just finished packing up.  
  
        Paul turned around to face Schneider. “I see the old saying is true,” he said as he threw his hands up in surrender, “The more things change, the more they stay the same.”  
  
        Paul walked over to the back of the stage nearer to Schneider and sat himself down on a stool. He looked down at the floor as he said, “Some people never change, do they Schneider?”  
  
        Schneider could see that Paul needed a serious pep-talk. The last of the loft furniture having been put away, Schneider reached for a stacking chair, took hold of the back rest, slid the seat between his thighs backward and sat down on the chair next to Paul. Schneider reached over to put his arm around Paul’s shoulder.  
  
        “Look,” began Schneider as he prepared to impart his best wisdom onto his dear friend. “The most disappointing thing that one human being can do to any other is not live up to his expectations. You and your father expect quite a lot from each other – far more than either of you are willing to give. Now, sure, he wants you to change, and you want him to change, but to what end, Paul? What change would he ever make in return for you changing to become more like him? And frankly, what change would you be willing to make in exchange for changing something about him?  
  
        “You see, at some level, we all understand the need for change, but at the same time, we are creatures of habit and slow to change anything about ourselves. Face it, you want your father to change so that you can remain the same. Of course, the reverse is true of your father.  
  
        Paul interjected, “I suppose I never should have been surprised or offended by anything my father said or did. He is so stuck in his ways that he is simply so predictable.”  
  
        “Ah, but don’t you see?” Schneider replied. “There is a real value in being predictable and in enjoying a sense of permanence in general. In fact, I can’t think of anyone for whom this is true that for your father, Paul. Think about it: The adjustments over the past ten years in this country were very hard to absorb. Sure, these changes were all for the better, but for someone like your father, someone so deeply entrenched in the old system, his world was turned upside-down. He is desperately looking for something to cling onto from the past. He is not over the emotional turmoil and he wants to find something – anything – to make him believe he is still in control. He needs to feel that he is still important, and moreover, he needs you to feel he is still important.  
  
        “I never really thought of it that way,” said Paul sombrely. “I understand what you are saying about the importance of permanence in life, but I am just as entitled to permanence as my father is. My music has become part of my life now. Surely, I can’t change that for my father’s sake.”  
  
        “No,” answered Schneider, “and I for one hope you will never change, Paul. Permanence is largely a positive thing; your father may simply be a case of collateral damage, as it were. He has no permanence in his life because nothing of the old life that he simply took for granted for so long actually exists now. All he has to latch onto now is the past. You, on the other hand, Paul, look to the future and you have great ambitions. That is what I am counting on. You are a rock against the storm in our stressful business. I hope you never lose that quality. The more things change, the more I need you to stay the same, Paul.”  
  
        Paul sat for a moment staring blankly forward as he absorbed Schneider’s words. Of course, Paul had long known that nothing he did or said would ever change his father and his ways, but now the realisation finally struck him: a change would destroy his father. Paul needed his father to remain the man he was.  
  
        At first, Paul felt a sense of despair, but then a liberating sense of relief washed over him like a wave. No longer did Paul need to keep pining for the acceptance of his father. No longer did Paul need to feel defeated over something he had no power to change. Rather, Paul could simply be thankful that his music, his life’s work and his greatest passion, could continue no matter what his father thought about it. Nothing could ever change that.  
  
        “Well then,” said Schneider as he stood up and got off the chair. Paul snapped out of his trance and Schneider told him, “I’ve had enough for one night. Let’s get out of here.”  
  
        Paul stood up and walked toward the entryway door along with Schneider. As Schneider opened the door, Paul stopped for a second to ask, “Schneider, the show tonight was a great success, wasn’t it?”  
        “The greatest we’ve had,” confirmed Schneider.  
  
        “Have we made it then, at last?” Paul continued, “Is this a sign of great things to come? Do you really believe in what we have going? I mean – I know there is still a lot of work ahead of us, but do you think we’ve got it now?”  
  
        Schneider smiled as he responded, “All I know is that you will always have me by your side to help you get through whatever happens. That you can count on.”  
  
        Paul smiled. Schneider opened the door and held it open for Paul. Paul stepped out of the loft and began down the stairs.  
  
        Schneider then stepped through the doorway, took a look back inside the empty loft, reached over to the switch to turn the lights off and then closed the door.  
          
        THE END


End file.
